


Daughter

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [23]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Age Difference, Culture Clashes, Culture Shock, Defying Expectation, Dehumanization, Gen, Gender Confusion, Internalised Racism, Intersex Jotunn (Marvel), Mama laufey, Non-Sexual Post-Infancy Breastfeeding, Other, POV First Person, POV Loki (Marvel), Pre-Thor (2011), Single-Gendered Species, internalised sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Words are prayers, or so the saying goes. And Loki is called unmanly, most often. So he becomes a half-and-half that Asgard is stumped and disgusted with: a “she” in the guise of a “he.”Days before Thor’s coronation as king, as the vicious rumours and rumoured rejections of her becoming the advisor to the soon King Thor reaches a peak, Loki flees the pressure at last. To the realm where monsters are. To where kings bear children that are the only legitimate heirs to the throne. To where this “ergi trickster” can become just a freak among freaks. And there, things… happen.
Relationships: Farbauti & Loki (Marvel), Farbauti/Laufey (Marvel), Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel), Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 8
Kudos: 108
Collections: The Land of Ice and Snow





	Daughter

Story notes:  
First of all, there is _no_ offence meant, _whatsoever_ , to the in-between gender, the transgender, the genderfluid, or women. I am just trying to portray, as neutrally and cleanly as I can make it, what might happen if a male-self-identifying but actually unisex Loki succumbs to the taunts of those around “him” as “he” grows up, based on a saying that I often hear mentioned in my homeland: “Words are prayers,” which translates as “Be careful of what you say out loud, because that means you are praying for your words to come true, and such do come true, more often than not, especially the negative ones, because you really put your mind to it.”  
The premise is: If Asgard favours the manly while Jötunheim favours the between and womanly, what will happen to a high-profile child with the nature of the latter but the nurture of the former, if their family identifies them as male while the society _scorns_ them as female? As the result, this story could be _quite_ triggering for you, so please make sure you are safe and comfortable with such topic before proceeding.  
If you still wish to read further, I would like to additionally inform/warn you that, in Rey-verse, including this story, there is _also_ a clash between how Asgard views age and maturity and how Jötunheim sees such. In Asgard, Loki would be a nearly of-age youth, perhaps 15-16 in modern human standard, while in Jötunheim Loki would be a child just old enough to attend formal functions without being too clingy or too embarrassing, about 8-9 years old in the same standard.  
If you still wish to read after that, well, enjoy! ☺  
Rey

Author’s note: Well, I wanted to give myself this as a birthday fic on the 15th, but I was so inundated with RL that time, so it’s 10 days late. I hope you’ll enjoy this treat, still!

Started on: 8th November 2019 at 10:00 PM  
Finished on: 25th October 2020 at 10:44 AM

**O-O-O-O**

“Would you not change into a better attire, _brother_?” Thor, crossing paths with me in the hallway connecting the royal residences in the palace, lets out a great, put-upon sigh. “Are you going to wear a _dress_ , too, during my coronation? It was all fun and nice, playing like that when we were children, but the both of us are well past such age now, you know. Not even Sif likes such accessories, and she is a _true_ woman! What should I say to everyone when the main advisor to the King of Asgard is a half-man, half-woman? I am going to be the laughing stock of the universe! Would you want that for my image? For _your_ own image as my advisor?”

I pause and look down on myself, noting the light, loose pair of trousers that I am wearing, and the equally light and loose knee-length tunic. They can perhaps be loosely interpreted as a practical working attire for men under the heat of Asgard’s sun, except for the bits of glittering stones and delicate lace of gold and silver sewn meticulously by Mother on the hemlines.

But, truth be told, I look down _not_ because of that. Not because of the clothes I like to wear every day anyway.

No. It is the words. _Always_ the words. And this time, they have the added punch of coming from _my own brother_ , like seldom before; quite all of a sudden, at that. But indeed, Thor has been agitated these past few years, as Father forced him to _truly_ catch up with lessons of how to be a king.

And as people mutter more and more about _an argr_ becoming the main advisor of the future king – “such a good future king,” at that.

“Not to worry, brother,” I say flippantly when the lump in my throat has dissolved some. “I still look presentable, do I not? And you know very well that I can defend myself, even on my own.”

And then, when I am sure that I have nothing easily readable on my face, I look back up and into his eyes. “Just do your best, and I shall do my own best. – Now, I am sure the tutor is waiting for you in your study….”

I continue on my way to my quarters before he can formulate an answer, hoping that he will not notice my quickened pace.

I relax only when the lock on my front door clicks into place behind me, followed by the activation of the locking and repelling wards that encompass my quarters in a bubble.

Throughout the years, even more than the centuries before, scrutiny _and scorn_ bear down harder and harder on me, and I do not wish to imagine how it will feel during Thor’s coronation, only months from now.

They said that I am womanly despite my purported male sex. I have become womanly indeed as I grew up. They pointed out that a woman is supposed to study womanly arts. I took it as encouragement to learn to fight with daggers and work with seiðr. And _now_ they want me to be a man, to fit in the mould of how a king’s “most respected advisor” is supposed to be.

I need to do something – _anything_ – before I explode in one way or another, and I must do it _away_ from here, or the rumours will get worse and damage everyone – which will be blamed on _me_ , naturally.

**O-O-O-O**

Slipping out of Asgard is depressingly easy, as usual.

The guards have increasingly tightened their security, now that the coronation ceremony is near and guests have begun to trickle in, to both see the future Allfather before the coronation and to attend the coronation itself. However, they _never_ think of guarding the Between, the hidden paths between the realms that one can use with sufficient knowledge, power, finesse and practise. And I am _not_ going to tell them – some of the worst rumour-mongers, though Father’s personal guard tend to stay out of it or defend me instead.

Well, Mother knows about these paths, and stays silent as well, so maybe she has _deliberately_ provided me a way to relax or at least vent out my hurts, away from Asgard and the many judging eyes.

And I am using the leeway to best effect, presently, if I say so myself.

Who would care if I wreaked some havoc on _Jötunheim_ , after all?

The bonus is, here, though monstrous brutes as they are, the jötnar do not mind being known as ergi. There are even rumours that their kings – or is that _chiftains_? – _bear children_ to continue the line of their ruling royalty.

So, here, I am among “my kind,” as quite a few people have been saying scoffingly behind my back all these centuries.

And because of that, I am presently garbed in a riding _dress_ ; suitable for quick and intricate movements, but still rather blatantly female if lacking in the breast area.

I would _love_ to see anybody here consider me an easy picking: a tiny female among all the huge, powerful brutes. I am sure Father would not mind me cleaning up a few elements in this realm… _if_ he ever knew about it in the first place. My daggers are _thirsty_ for action.

To get some action, I need to be close to what the jötnar call civilisation, though. So, with that in mind, I set to traversing the deserted halls that I have found myself emerging into from the Between, _without_ my usual set of stealth wards but with double the protection.

I wish to get some fun, after all, not to get myself killed.

**O-O-O-O**

The courtyard that I have just emerged into is… interesting. Various jötnar – in loincloths, of course, and grunting and cheering like savages – line it, watching a sparring session – or is it a public beating? – avidly between a particularly huge, particularly bulky jötun and three younger – or at least smaller – ones. All four of them are displaying agility that is frankly shocking, and the way they are swinging their clubs are nearly just as graceful as if an ás or a vana were swinging a rapier.

As expected, the giantly giant is winning, often landing blows that at times topple one of its opponents with a grunt and a shower of snow. It receives a few hits, itself… but still keeps its bearing. Oftentimes, it adroitly punishes the hitters right away with double the blow, in fact. And each time, it says something sharply – lecturingly? – in a language too lilting for the brute to speak in… except that I _do_ hear it speak.

And then, in one clean, decisive blow, it sends _all three opponents_ into the snow that acts as flooring for this arena, _hard_.

Not that it receives a moment’s respite from the action, still. A pair of jötnar that are just a head’s taller than I am, which makes them barely buttock-height compared to the _far larger_ jötun, are in fact detaching themselves synchronously from the spectators on the opposite side of where I am hiding, _and approaching the brute_.

They are either cockier than Thor… or suicidal.

But… no… what are they doing? What are _all_ of them doing? The three beaten jötnar are _creeping away_ instead of continuing the fight, and the pair of new, _tiny_ jötnar – in comparison! – are each _hugging one leg of the humongous brute_ , and the brute _allows it_?!!

Worse yet, after a few soft, _wheedling_ words, the pair _climb up the brute’s sides_ and rest – _childlike_ – at the latter’s either hip. They proceed to lift the loose wrap that covers the far bigger jötun’s chest, then, and… are they _feeding from those breasts_?!! On the _middle_ of a _fighting arena_?!! While the sidelines are still _full_ of spectators?!!

And the brute – the trainer? The chief of this rabble? The foremost warrior? The punisher? – _ignores_ them. It speaks to – lectures? – the spectators, all the while, and its attention often rests on its three former opponents.

This behaviour makes me – _unwillingly_! – imagine an ergi, loincloth-clad General Týr standing on the middle of the palace’s training arena, addressing the trainees and spectators, while a grown-up Sif feeds from his breasts.

It is so _nauseating_ , so _bizarre_ , that I lose control, and snickering sounds escape my pursed lips.

Unfortunately, for all their towering heights, the jötnar apparently possess overly keen hearing, or maybe they just know when they are being laughed at, for the brute’s words suddenly stop and its attention – its _presence_ – bears down on me.

I turn round, and _run_ , and _laugh_ , for real this time, even as I materialise duplicates of me to keep the horde occupied.

Because, however unexpected, this is what I have been waiting for: a chance to pit my own strengths against someone – _anyone_ – without being jeered at or judged inadequate _by gender_. Being able to toy with _a jötun_ is a nice bonus, part of the reason why I now send duplicates for distraction instead of immediately directing lethal spells to end it all.

Well, I would never willingly pick _this jötun_ to pit myself against, given its prowess, but I have to make do with what I get, anyway, oftentimes, despite my station in life, and–.

“Eep!”

How did I end up _floating in air_ like this? What is holding me up? I do not recognise this spell! And why does it feel like _that brute’s presence_? Is it a mage _in addition_ to being a warrior and a giantly giant brute?

I flail about, both physically and with my seiðr, but only manage to tire myself. And reabsorbing the duplicates does not spare me more strength to fight this odd hold on my body _and seiðr_ , either.

And, uncontested as it is, the invisible hand cocooning me marches me down the halls opposite where I came from, inexorably like the change of day into night, parading me by various giant brutes loitering on the way – who stare gap-mouthed _at me_.

A verbal and mental susurrus runs in the wake of this ridiculous, humiliating procession; a horrible déjà vu of what I sometimes experience in Asgard, especially whenever I dress more “womanly” than usual. So it seems that, wherever I go, whatever I do–.

Wait, wait, wait, where am I being brought to? What is this huge, empty hall? Is it the throneroom of these beasts? An indoor fighting arena? Am I going to be put to death by being beaten into a pulp by that huge brute? Simply for _laughing_? – Stupid Loki. Stupid frost giant. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I struggle harder.

And, though I cannot break free, I manage to swivel round a little.

Unfortunately, then my eyes meet those of _that huge brute’s_ , who turns out to have been padding along _casually_ behind my helplessly floating form.

Damn. For one possessing a craggy, eyebrowless visage, the jötun has mastered the equivalent of my best sardonically lifted eyebrow. And _I_ am currently the recipient of it!

But, before I can contemplate a retaliation that is _not_ childish, will leave me alive _and_ intact, and can be delivered while being _still_ mostly cocooned in whatever this is, a pair of _huge blue hands_ suddenly grab me from behind, from the direction of the empty – _previously empty_ – hall.

“Let me go!” I shout by reflex, although it horrifyingly sounds more like a squeak let out by a little child – not even a _grown_ woman.

Still, rather unexpectedly, the invisible hand _does_ let me go, _after divesting me of **all** my weapons_.

But the physical hand, which has the flavour of a different presence, _does not_.

It brings my wriggling and cursing self _closer_ to its owner, in fact.

And then, with some shocking and admitedly agile manoeuvring for such huge fingers on a huger hand, I find myself turned back round to face the hall, to face my new captor, with my back on _that huge brute_.

Quite a dangerous position to be in, seen from any angle.

Especially when, upon closer inspection of this new frost giant now staring at me, I realise that I am trying to struggle free from _Laufey’s_ grip.

Well, this jötun looks somehow _softer_ than what the books in the palace’s library depict about Laufey, also less barbaric, but, nevertheless, my intuition tells me that I am under the total mercy of _Laufey_ , the _King_ of all these ergi brutes.

And the beast is simply _staring_ at me, as if stumped about how I got to be in its figurative and literal clutch.

Its surprisingly _gentle_ clutch, though none the weaker for it.

I do not know should I be relieved or even more trepidatious when, from behind me, the other giant – apparently still huger and bulkier than even _Laufey_ – breaks into this awkward standoff, saying – for once in a language translatable by Allspeak – with probably _un_ characteristic patience, “Come, Fié, nobody will dare to bother you for the next while. You can admire the brat to your heart’s content in the nest.”

And Laufey _obeys_.

**O-O-O-O**

The “nest” turns out to be a large, windowless, well-shielded room somewhere deep within the structure of ice-layered blue-grey stone, which is mostly dominated by a surprisingly cosy-looking cushion pit, very similar to what I have in my bedroom and Father in his.

Laufey seats itself cross-legged by the lip of the pit nearest the door, still gripping me in one hand, soon joined by the huger giant that ordered it here, sans its parasitical tagalongs. Neither jötnar does nor says anything for _a long, long while_ , however, especially Laufey, even though there is no audience in this well-shielded place but for the three of us.

And, predictably, once an unspecified time has passed, the huger brute caves in, first.

But, _un_ predictably, it – a huge, admitedly skilled and perceptive brute of a warrior and a mage – does it _whingingly_.

“Are you finished gawking yet, Fié? When are you going to prove it once and for all? Shall I do it in your place? Come on, the brat interrupted me in the middle of a training session! You know how horrible those midgets are when left alone for too long.”

The only reaction that it elicits in Laufey is a stiffening of its body.

_At first_.

And then, without further ado and without any warning, a presence – a _different_ presence, not the whinging brute’s, possibly even _Laufey’s_ – drenches me, almost viciously, seeking to tear _everything_ that does not belong to me, flavoured with the bitterness of a… grieving mother?

I cannot care less about the _motivation_ , right now, in any case.

I howl, verbally, mentally.

I cannot help it – it is so shocking and _painful_!

But, at the end of the storm of seiðr, _somehow_ , I feel… light, _free_ as I never was, unbound and unencumbered, though terribly open and… linked?… with…? With… With…!

I stare wide-eyed at Laufey, who is still gripping me in one hand, who is still staring back at me.

Who is… _weeping_?

Well, those glowing red eyes – bigger than before? – are… shinier than before… and some viscous liquid is pouring down silently from them, and I do not know what else to call it, but can a _frost giant_ really weep? Why, at that? And _why am I connected to it in a level not achieved even with my own parents_?

Then again, why is the air _much warmer_ than before? And why do I feel… somewhat different?

I look down – try to, at least! – to check, but the jötun – Laufey! It is Laufey! Why Laufey? – is quicker. It moves the other hand – with fingers tipped with black _claws_ , if currently unextended – to partially cover my front.

And then, for the first time in our encounter, it _speaks_ , in a wavering voice at that, as if shaken with some great emotion.

“Loptr Laufey-childe.”

A declaration.

A _claim_ , which echoes something from my earliest, fuzziest memory, which connects me _deeper_ with it – with _Laufey_ , with a _frost giant_.

A primal _something_ bubbles up in me, reacting to the power that still soaks every bit of me, responding to the _name_ that _Laufey_ has just proclaimed.

A word rolls onto the tip of my tongue, and I do not know what it is.

I dare not utter it, either, to find out.

And then it becomes a moot point, as, right before my eyes, and without breaking our eye contact, the jötun shifts into an ás-like form.

With long, somewhat wavy, lustrous black hair and small, round, apple-green eyes.

My hair. My eyes – if a somewhat different shade of green. Even my nose, my cheeks….

And those eyes are still leaking and staring at me unashamedly.

As if I were the most fascinating object or person in the whole universe.

My breath hitches.

“Who are you?” I whisper. Then blink in incomprehension. Because my voice sounds _much younger_.

Unexpectedly… or maybe not… it is not the form before me that answers.

No. The dubious honour goes to the other individual in this room, who has gone unnoticed all this while _by the both of us_ , judging from how I _and Laufey_ flinch when it huffs impatiently from behind me.

And then it declares in the same impatient tone, “Your dam, of course! Who else? You think Fié would gawk at anybody else? Not even _I_ can hold their attention for so long, and I was their partner in making _you_!”

My eyes go as big and round as saucers, it feels. – What nonsense! _Laufey_ , my _mother_?

But then it – _Laufey_ – cards its fingers _softly_ through my hair, and holds me close, and lets itself topple into the cushion pit only to cuddle me _even closer_ , and laughs brokenly even as it sobs – an unfeigned mingling of sorrow and joy and many more emotions that even _I_ cannot deny, including utter bewilderment about this turn of events.

I join it, a second after.

And the huger brute completes the set.


End file.
